


Come What May

by lielabell



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/pseuds/lielabell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Race is like smoke, harsh, probably bad for you and impossible to keep hold of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come What May

Race is like smoke, harsh, probably bad for you and impossible to keep hold of. And when Spot wants him he’s almost never around to be had. But tonight is different. Tonight Race is the one who will be kept waiting. Spot glances at the door, frowning. Or, at least, he will be if he ever shows up.

Spot knows that what they have is short term, knows that sooner or later Race is going to vanish into the night and never return. He accepts that. It’s part of what makes the other boy alluring in the first place and gives every encounter a tinge of excitement. There’s something about knowing that this might be it, that this touch might be the last, that now might be the end, that heightens Spot’s enjoyment.

Besides, it’s not like he’s any different. Hell, tomorrow he might find something that pleases him more, see something that he can’t live without and then there will be no room for Race and their unspoken agreement. His frown deepens. Not that their agreement seems to be doing much for him now. Spot refuses to look at the door again, turning his back on it completely. He’ll be damned if he let’s Race think he’s got the upper hand.

When Race enters the room, Spot ignores him. What else can he do in the middle of a meeting? Never mind that he’s been prolonging it for this very reason. He runs his thumb across his bottom lip and debates with himself about how soon he can reasonably finish up with his boys. Then he glances up, pleased to see the want in Race’s eyes, and jerks his head back towards his office. Race nods, touches the brim of his cap as he edges past a couple of toughs and then disappears down the hall. Spot waits for a break in the conversation then raises his eyebrows and looks meaningfully at the door. He asks if there is any further business. Not surprisingly, there isn’t.

He stands, brushes the creases out of his britches and then fingers the head of his cane until the last of the goodbyes are said. Spot lingers, rifling through papers he isn’t interested in reading, knowing that Race will be faster off the block the longer he has to wait. When he thinks that Race has stewed enough, Spot walks down the short hall, raps once on the door and then opens it.

Race is sitting at the desk with hands laced behind his head and a cigarette dangling from his lips as naked as the day he was born. Spot feels something tighten in his stomach and he smiles, watching the way the smoke curls around Race’s lips before dispersing into the air. Fitting, he thinks as he locks the door behind him and strides into the room.

Spot leans the cane against the desk, plucks the cigarette from Race’s mouth and replaces it with his own. His free hand drops to Race’s leg, tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Race tastes like loose leaf tobacco and beer and Spot has never wanted him more. He smiles as he pulls back, dropping to his knees. Race grins, spreading his legs wide and motions for Spot to do what he will. Spot takes a long draw on the cigarette before grinding it out on the scarred surface of the desk. Then he ducks his head and licks the tip of Race’s penis.

Race lets out a moan, slouching further in his chair. Spot smirks to himself and he pulls back. Race grunts out a protest, which Spot ignores, and then raises his hips, his thighs brushing against Spot’s ribs. Spot pops a finger into his mouth, swirls it around and shoves it into Race, whose breath hitches and eyes roll back. Pleased with himself, Spot leans forward, taking Race so deep that his nose is almost touching coarse black hair. He fights himself to hold there, working a second finger in as Race groans.

Race may be smoke, shifting, changing and never something that Spot can count on to be in his grasp, but tonight, at least, Spot is fire, able to make smoke come on command. He grins around a mouthful of cock, happy to knows how this ends. He sucks deeply as Race bucks against him, blissfully unaware of what tomorrow brings. For now it enough that they are touching, that sooner rather than later Race will be bent over the desk he now sits at, his ass stretched wide by what’s currently throbbing between Spot’s legs. Tomorrow can bring what it may, so long as Spot is able to greet it with the smell of cigarettes and Race lingering on his skin.


End file.
